Ghosts
by D McVetty
Summary: One week after Reichenbach, John Watson walks past a phone box and is abducted by a mad man in a tweed suit to discover Sherlock Holmes is alive, and so is Moriarty. Now, John and Sherlock are faced with an uncertain future and surprising enemies.
1. Chapter 1

A Sherlock / Doctor Who crossover._ I own neither show, and therefore own none of the characters. This is a story written for the pure joy of writing. It would be more of a joy to receive feedback from my lovely readers._

One week after the Reichenbach Fall, John Watson walks past a new phone box and is stopped by a mad man in a tweed suit to discover Sherlock Holmes is alive, and so is Moriarty. With the help of the Doctor and his TARDIS, they set out to finally stop Moriarty.

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><p>Chapter 1<p>

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><p>It happened quite suddenly.<p>

John passed the innocuous red telephone booth without a moment's spare thought on the tinted windows or the lack of a proper door handle. In fact, he treated it less than any other phone box he might have spied on that street and if he were in any proper mood, he wouldn't have bothered to add it to his mental road map in the first place. He did, because this was a path he had walked many a time, and this was a _new _phone box. Almost the same time as the army doctor started to turn, he heard a click, and felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

"John Watson!" a voice called cheerfully. "Hello, hello, good to see you and... ah-" The strange man wore a tweed suit, a red bowtie cinched at his throat at the peak of a white undershirt. A smile stretched across his face, his eyes lively, his hair tousled across his head carelessly. As if forgetting John, his attention turned quickly to the phone box he seemingly appeared from. "Oh," he said in dull acceptance. "Oh _dear_, how odd."

John wore a look of confusion. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and rethought his question. The strange man's sudden appearance had him confused, and he almost walked away that instant, but something about the phone box behind him seemed to shimmer and warp, drawing his attention.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" John heard himself ask, though his attention was on the box, staring at it hard, as if by sheer willpower he could make it divulge secrets of time and space.

The man rounded on him, clapping his hands together and grinning madly. "Right, sorry, where are my manners? I'm the Doctor. You're a doctor too, as I hear it, but I'm _the_ Doctor. I hate confusion," the man said, taking John's hand and pulling him close. He kissed the air on either side of John's cheeks and pulled away before the army doctor could decide what was happening. "Have to remember not to do that," he muttered under his breath, turning away in a flourish to circle the phone box.

"That doesn't really answer the question," John said, stepping closer to the box. The shimmer before his eyes vanished when he doubted himself, and he looked to _The Doctor_. "Doctor who?"

The Doctor appeared around the side of the red phone box, grin across his face. "Good question, John. And better answered by someone more qualified than myself."

John tried to ask another question, but he couldn't. The strange man kept moving around the box, humming and hawing to himself, as if perplexed and slightly disappointed. No more so than John, who could swear he saw something beneath it, something different than just a plain phone box. When his attention turned, when he looked the other way, he could swear there was something _vast_ hiding beneath the surface.

Without any explanation, the man stopped suddenly, popped up next to John and looked him straight in the eye. The closeness of the strange man set John back, but he held his ground to not show weakness in the face of such a stranger. "You see it too," the Doctor observed. "John Watson, of 221B Baker street-"

"Not anymore," John said wearily, though immediately as the address had been said. Not since the fall, he couldn't bear to stay there. "My... My flatmate died and I left." _Why am I telling this stranger?_

"Right," the Doctor says slowly, recovering from the interruption to his introduction. He shifted on his toes, moving even closer to get a good look at John's face. "What if I told you that's why I'm here?"

John physically stepped back. He could feel the anger rising. It was enough to suffer the ridicule of the press, it was enough to hear the questions from the police. Now this man, who suddenly stepped into his life and offered nothing but questions and took all the answers to ferret away in his mop of a head, thought he could do the same. "I'm not answering any questions. You can shove off," he said angrily, clenching his fists as he turned and stalked down the sidewalk.

The Doctor danced in front of him to stop him, holding his hands out. "No, John, look at it, that's no ordinary box. Right? And Sherlock - yes, see? Sherlock! - he wasn't a normal person." John stopped to hear the Doctor out, less because he trusted him and more because the box was incredibly interesting, and the strange man dove on. "What if I told you I have the answers? I just need your help. _We _need your help. It's delicate work and we need a mind for it."

John looked at the man skeptically. "What do you need me for?"

"I thought you'd never ask!" the Doctor exclaimed, brushing past. "Come now, there is much to do and all the time in the world to do it in, if we time it right."

Deciding there was no danger out on a street, John followed the madman only to discover they stopped in front of the red phone box. He looked up at it, arching his eyebrow and giving the Doctor a glance. "Are we phoning someone?"

"Oh, right, he fixed the chameleon circuit. Told him not to, really, but what can you do? You would know better than anyone," the Doctor said in dismissal. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. "Now, if you will."

John made a face, looking at the phone box. "In there? What, do you think I'm daft?"

"Just come on," the Doctor persuaded.

"No, you're mad."

The Doctor sighed heavily, disappearing inside. The door stayed open, leading to something that didn't quite make sense to John's eyes. He tired to turn away, he tired to walk back the way he'd come, to forget about the mad man and the red phone box. He tried _very_ hard, it should be noted that he was very close to leaving. But the strange glow inside and the absence of the Doctor in the space he _should_ be in made him ever curious and he walked to the door.

When he entered the phone booth, the sensory overload stopped him dead in his tracks. Where he'd walked in, where there should be a small box with four walls and a telephone, perhaps a ratty old phone book with torn pages and pen marks from dozens of people, there was instead a strange sort of foyer. It led to a staircase, that led to a circular platform with a circular spire rising from floor to distant ceiling filled with knobs and levers and buttons and even a few parts that resembled engine components. From the round platform were two staircases that led off into the distance on either side, disappearing into the walls further on. Standing at the spire, one hand on a monitor dangling from a metal arm, was the Doctor.

"It's bigger... on the inside," John said dully, when his wits partially returned to him.

"I love that part," the Doctor said, letting the monitor go to jump down the stairs and meet John Watson face-to-face again. "They always come in. You were harder than most, but I had faith in you."

"We're in a phone booth."

"Used to be a police box," the Doctor lamented, shaking his head.

John lifted his hands, as if to emphasize the small space they should be in. "We are in a _phone box_ that is _bigger_ on the inside."

"Precisely."

The familiar voice snapped John out of his shock and he turned to the man. Tall as always, lanky, though somewhat thinner, his hair more of a wild mess than it had ever been. John's mouth worked open and close, but nothing came out. Only stupid shock and disbelief. He'd asked for this, at the cemetery one week ago, he'd asked for Sherlock to be alive. He'd thought it was just a stupid wish, but here the man was. Alive. Well. And his normal asshole self.

Before John quite realized what he was doing, he'd crossed the small foyer, bounded up the steps, moved across the platform, and punched Sherlock square in the jaw. The consulting detective recoiled from the blow, hand going to his face.

"That hurt!"

"Damn right it hurt!" John shouted. "You were dead! I saw you die!"

"I had no choice," Sherlock hissed, dabbing at his lip with a delicate pale finger. His blood smeared red across his skin and he scowled. "The phone was bugged, John. I thought you would have known that."

Logically speaking, John would have known the phone was bugged. From the moment he saw Sherlock standing on the roof, all logic had left his head. Now, even through the anger, he could see the truth in Sherlock's words. "What happened?"

"They never found Moriarty's body?" Sherlock deflected, in that way he did when leading John to conclusions. A small smile played on the corner of his lips as he watched his flatmate.

"Just a smear of blood," John agreed.

The Doctor stepped between them, draping an arm over each man's shoulders. "And that's why I'm here. To get rid of the bad, bad man."

"Sherlock, who is this?"

"The Doctor, John. This is the Doctor."

"So I've heard," John said, twisting out from under the Doctor's arm. He was glad to see Sherlock do the same, though less clumsily. "Who is the Doctor? Is it a code name? Is he part of the military? Are you part of the military?" he asked, directing the question to the Doctor, who stood by with a grin on his face.

"Oh of course not, I'm no Military man. I'm wearing a bowtie. What military man wears a bowtie, John Watson?"

The army doctor didn't have a rebuke for it. Instead, he stood, staring angrily at Sherlock. "You were dead. I _saw_ you die. I watched them..." he heaved a great sigh, holding back the emotions that began to creep into his voice. "I went back to my shrink for it," he said finally.

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that," Sherlock said loftily. He walked past John to peer into the monitor. "There are bigger things happening now. I'm alive, yes. But so is Moriarty. And we both know what that means."

John looked at the Doctor, then threw his hands up. "No, I don't know what that means because I didn't know he was supposed to be _dead!_"

"He shot himself in the head," Sherlock said, never taking his eyes off of the monitor. "I saw it happen, but he's alive. So many things, John," the consulting detective said, turning from the monitor. "I've seen so many things and each one makes less sense than the last."

"That's my fault," the Doctor interrupted cheerfully.

Gathering his sea-legs beneath him, or rather his what-the-hell-is-going-on legs, John sat down in the only chair available on the platform, landing hard. "What exactly is going on? Where are we? This isn't a phone booth, how did you do this? I've seen David Blaine, even he couldn't pull this off."

"You're in the TARDIS," the Doctor said, patting the flattened hoop around the circular spire. "_Time and Relative Dimension in Space_. A traveling machine. Anywhere, anyday, anytime, anyplace. Everywhere. Here, right now, with the great Sherlock Holmes and bachelor John Watson."

John couldn't quite wrap his head around the Doctor's explanation, so he shook his head and pointed to Sherlock. "How is Sherlock alive? There was so much blood..."

"Fake blood," Sherlock said quickly. "Everything was set up. I'm willing to admit the Doctor did much of the work, or the fall would have killed me."

John put a hand against his forehead. "You're telling me you knew it was going to happen? Why didn't you _tell _me?"

"I had to keep you safe, John." Sherlock's words were earnest, spoken quietly without the usual bitterness.

"That was my fault, as well," the Doctor added. "I had to make sure the man you knew as Moriarty thought everything had gone his way."

"If he wasn't Moriarty, then who was he?" John asked, looking up to the two men.

Side by side, the Doctor and Sherlock Holmes were of relatively same height, with their slim builds and their pressed suits, one with a bowtie one with a loosely buttoned undershirt. The Doctor's eyes were old beyond words, where Sherlock's were cold and logical. Yet something about the pair seemed to go together nicely. To John, he supposed their intelligence must be what got them on so fabulously.

Sherlock didn't make the first move, choosing to let the Doctor explain.

"Moriarty was just a name," the Doctor said hesitantly. "It really is a good thing you're sitting down, most people don't take it all in one sitting." The Doctor rocked on the balls of his feet, tugging a strange, pen-shaped device from his pocket. Fiddling with it, he looked up at the ceiling of the TARDIS to gather his thoughts. "Moriarty was really a Time Lord, like myself, called the Master," he said, eyeing John for any questions that might arise. "I thought he was dead. Then, I also thought he had reformed, and that was not right at all. I found him by pure chance."

"When Moriarty broke into the Crown Jewels case," John said.

"You _are _smart," the Doctor crowed, delighted. "It was brought to my attention right about then, with everything going off at once. I was in the area, visiting with some... friends. And family. Family friends. Friends of family. Anyway, that's not important. What is important is that I found the Master, and I found his target."

John sighed heavily, felling much like he'd had this conversation before with Mycroft. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Really quite a popular fellow," the Doctor agreed, grinning at the sullen detective. "Unfortunately, his unending charm isn't what the Master wanted from him."

"Moriarty," John clarified.

"Right, Moriarty. The Master. They're the same person, John, keep up with me." The Doctor flipped the pen-shaped object, pointing it at John. The little green light and the pulsing sound put the army doctor off, but the Doctor only smiled. He scanned the light over John, then flipped it up to stare at the base of the clawed prongs. "Don't worry, its sonic. A sonic screwdriver, actually. Ah! Good news, John. You're not bugged."

"Why would I be bugged?"

Sherlock pulled the hems of his coat, looking annoyed. "If someone were following you, to make sure I was really dead, they would have you bugged."

"No one has been following me since you... died," John said stiffly.

"Don't be foolish," Sherlock said in dismissal. "The homeless, John, they're my eyes and ears. You have been under their surveillance since the day I faked my death. You don't really think I'd let you be alone, do you?"

John didn't have time to answer the unusual detective. A sudden static blasted through the cavernous hall of the TARDIS and the Doctor was hopping around the center console, flipping switches and jamming levers. The crazy man pointed, and Sherlock stepped up to the controls, pressing a lever down. Never before had John seen Sherlock take orders, or suggestions. Something, some tiny part of him, was jealous of the mad man with the box. To get Sherlock to do something so easily!

"John, hold this one here!" the Doctor called, pointing to a yellow button before dancing away to play with the other components. "She's locked on to the Master's position!"

John scrambled to the button as the floor beneath his feet gave a nauseating lurch. As far as he knew, they were the only people on the ship. "Who is locked on to the Master?"

"The TARDIS, of course," the Doctor said, as if everyone should know it. "You might feel a slight dizzying sensation - you can stop pressing that button, Sherlock - but that will pass. Here we are... now... _geronimo_!"

_Slight dizzying sensation_ didn't quite cover the stomach-dropping wave of nausea that pulsed through John Watson as the TARDIS rattled and pitched like a sailboat through a storm. He lost his grasp on the button, falling back from the console to be caught by Sherlock and eased into the chair. Through his double vision, he managed to spot the Doctor, standing at the console with a wide grin. When at last the TARDIS came to a halt with grinding gears, the Doctor pranced to John Watson's side, clapped him on the back, and laughed.

"Welcome to time travel, John Watson."


	2. Chapter 2

Welcome to Chapter Two of Ghosts, thank you for reading and thank you so much for your lovely reviews! To those of you not reviewing, thank you for reading and favorite'ing and putting this story in your alerts. It means so much to me.

There will be a larger gap between this chapter and the next chapter, warning you now. Please do enjoy, and review if you have time.

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><p>Chapter Two<p>

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><p>"Vortex Manipulator," the Doctor announced, strolling out of the phone box easily enough. He turned to look back at them, and his eyes lit up. "Oh, good, I made it."<p>

Sherlock stepped out after the Doctor, leaving wobbly-legged Watson to stand in the doorway as the other two marveled at the outside of the ship. The phone box. John still couldn't quite wrap his head around the normal size of the outside and the immense space on the inside. Sherlock tried to explain it to him, but even the consulting detective didn't seem that comfortable with the idea. It made sense on paper, John guessed, but when you saw it up close there was no sense to be made of the whole thing. When John left the TARDIS, he turned to see what the other two were gazing at and saw that the red phone box was no more. In its place stood a small shop, dark windows and a blue-and-white striped awning. The door was tinted glass with a thin metal frame and round door handles. A sign hung in the door, slightly off-centered, that read _"for sale by owner."_

"It's a building now," he said flatly, his head overflowing with information.

"Chameleon Circuit," Sherlock answered with a sigh. "The TARDIS cloaks itself to look like anything the inhabitants of a planet might not be curious about. When the Doctor saved me, the chameleon circuit of the TARDIS was stuck looking like a police box. Not exactly normal in the rest of the universe."

"And you ruined it," the Doctor pouted. "I rather liked the old blue box. Not to worry, I'm sure the old girl will break her circuit again soon. Ancient, really. Falling to pieces."

"You said _vortex manipulator_," John said hesitantly, staring at the Doctor. "What is that?"

"The Master... your _Moriarty_, had a vortex manipulator. What he used to flee the rooftop before anyone found his body. It works like the TARDIS but it really is a messy way to travel. Not pleasant at all."

"More unpleasant than the TARDIS?" John muttered.

"I heard that. If you'd like, I'll leave you here."

"Where _is _here?"

"France, approximately five years in your future. The TARDIS tracked the Master here. Any more questions, John?" The question wasn't rude - the Doctor didn't seem the type to ever fall into that category. Rather, the question was earnest and the strange man seemed more than willing to give out the answers. They had, however, the strange feeling of being pressed for time - which John found rather odd when one of them was in the possession of a time machine.

John thought he had more questions, but he shook his head and followed the Doctor anyway. The France they were in now looked very much like the France he knew from his military days, though the cars looked slightly different and there were no people on the streets. He was quite curious about the latter, but they didn't have time to examine it.

"Doctor, what month is it?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

The Doctor pondered the answer, turning in circles several times before coming to a stop facing Sherlock. "August, I believe. Hard to tell, I travel so much. I've been to the 1948 Olympics _twice_. Wonderful year. I'd go again, but I might bump into myself... _Awkward._"

The detective lifted a newspaper from the stand near them, looking it over with his calculating grey eyes. "This paper says its December."

"Oh," the Doctor said hesitantly. There was a dropping sense of unease in his voice as he moved closer, plucking the offending sheet of paper from Sherlock's fingers. The man relented his find easily enough, choosing instead to look around them for yet more clues.

"There haven't been people on ths street in some time," Sherlock said, frowning. The creases in his brow only grew deeper as he stooped to pick something out of the gutter. He turned it in his hands, the gold tube glinting in the daylight.

"Is that a shell?" John asked, suddenly wanting a glass of water to wash the dryness from his mouth. Sherlock deposited the used shell in John's waiting hand, moving on as quickly to the next bit of deduction.

John turned it over, looking at it through squinted eyes. "This is a British round," he said. Immediately the army doctor jumped off the sidewalk to comb the streets with a sharp eye. "There, and another over there. Sherlock-"

"There was a firefight." The detective turned around, further down the road, arms crossed over his chest. His piercing grey eyes looked straight to the Doctor. "Where are the people?"

"Enjoying pre-afternoon tea?" the Doctor suggested, dropping the paper promptly. He moved quickly to John, knocking the empty round from the man's hand. "Don't concentrate on that. Look around you, all of this isn't supposed to _be. _Can't you feel it?"

_Is it the sense of urgency? _John wondered, but he stayed silent, picking up the round to slide it in his pocket as the Doctor moved on towards Sherlock.

"We need to find the Master and we need to do it fast. He's dangerous, don't think about taking him alone. We should split up and meet back here in a half hour," he said, looking at his wrist. He tapped the spot a watch _would_ be and nodded. "Half hour, sounds quite good. Let's not lose our building, shall we? Wouldn't want to be stranded in the wrong future."

John felt a sudden question prickle in the back of his mind. "Are we in the future? Not us now, but _us_... future us who didn't skip the last five years."

The Doctor looked back to John, curiosity in those old eyes of his. "Well, of course you are. Oh! Or aren't. _Spoilers_. Oh, I shouldn't open my mouth like that." Putting a hand over his mouth, he moved his fingers to speak through them. "Your presence in the future is determined by the actions of your past. The Master might have gotten rid of you after you bored him. He's not very nice to his toys." With those parting words, the Doctor pranced off in a seemingly random direction. He turned suddenly, finding both Sherlock and Watson in the same place he'd left them. "Oh, don't go wandering off. Stay with each other. It's much easier to find both of you at once."

John pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows and huffed. "Right. Sherlock, where are we going?"

"The community center."

"What? Why the community center?"

"That is where we'll find the community, John."

"Of course," John said, rolling his eyes. He followed Sherlock easily enough, though his attention continuously flickered to the streets where yet _more_ expelled casings littered the ground. Five years into the future, and the British military was in France shooting in the streets. A shortage of supplies? A break in the treaties? Did France threaten war first? Thousands of possibilities ran through his head, and every step closer to the community center only planted more.

The streets were abandoned, in every sense of the word. Sherlock quietly picked his facts from the desolate surroundings, making small noises of excitement when he seemed to find something important but never speaking to John on the quality of his finds. An old rust-colored Volkswagen Passat sat abandoned near a _no parking_ sign, the windows busted out, the tires all stolen, and anything of value looted from the inside. John stepped closer, leaned to peer inside, and stumbled back with a startled cry. A black cat jumped from the broken window, hissing a warning before darting off into the narrow space between two buildings. John held his hand to his chest as Sherlock trotted over, carrying a broken umbrella.

"What is it, John?" he asked, holding the umbrella in a manner which suggested he might use it to defend them, if necessary.

"Just a cat," John answered quickly, sighing. He eyed the umbrella and held in a snort of laughter. "Were you going to _use_ that?"

Sherlock sniffed, turned his nose up at the question. "In case of an attacker, it is best to have a solid method of defense. Would you care to know what I've deduced since leaving the Doctor?"

His subject change was abrupt and to the point, so John nodded.

Sherlock twirled the umbrella in his hand, stopping it to point at the abandoned buildings. "The natural order of things, these businesses fell during a bad economy. Why do I know that, you ask? Because there are _for sale _signs. People don't put _for sale _signs in a sudden situation. Now, some of these businesses burnt out before the others. The bakery, for example. The last to go. That proves the economy was failing, people still needed to eat but they couldn't afford their Gucci purses or their barber shop cuts. But why? The shells on the ground, John."

"War?" the military doctor asked.

"Somewhat worse," Sherlock answered, turning to address the car with calculating grey eyes. "Martial Law. Sometime in December, which is when the papers stopped. The Doctor said it's August, leaving eight months of time between then and now. Judging by the shells and the lack of footprints, I'd say the people of France rebelled against the military. There were heavy casualties. Blood stains on the ground, John."

For the first time, John really looked at the ground. Rust red stains peppered the ground in various places, and he realized he was standing over one. Stepping out of the blood stain, he looked back to Sherlock. "And now?"

"Now?" Sherlock looked amused. "Now comes the war, John. Someone wormed his way into the fabric of governments across every continent. I believe we will find the rest of our answers at the community center."

The community center was a vast dome-shaped building, built beside a small pond and park, desolate and empty of even ducks. Emerald green leaves rustled obliviously on tall pale trees. The first thing John and Sherlock noticed going towards the community center was the barren field of destruction leading up to a makeshift barricade and the men standing at arms behind it. John threw a hand out in front of Sherlock, hitting the detective in the chest.

"Don't," he said sharply. "There are mines in the ground."

"Excellent deduction," Sherlock said, taking a cautious step backward. "Not what I was expecting to find."

The men behind the barricade spotted them, and lifted his rifle in greeting. Unable to tell if it were hostile or not, John awkwardly raised his hand. "Sherlock, we should forget the community center and go back to the Doctor," he said quietly.

"Don't be silly, John. That man recognizes you," Sherlock said, nodding to the sentry. He was moving aside a barricade, leading a group of three men. "We need information, and this is where we will find it."

The man picked his way across the minefield, coming to the pair quickly enough. The two men with him held their rifles up, their eyes on their surroundings. "Sir," the man said, saluting John. "We were expecting you tomorrow."

"Expecting... me?" John asked. It took him a moment to realise that this is what the Doctor meant, when he said they were or were not in the future. When he did, he felt a chill seep into his bones.

"Who is this man with you?" the sentry asked, eying Sherlock suspiciously.

"Lestrade," John lied quickly, before Sherlock could introduce himself. "He's with me."

"Is he an impersonator? He looks like Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh, no no no, no, defiantly not Sherlock Holmes," John said with a nervous laugh.

"Right, Sir, this way," the sentry said, leading the small group. The two men with him took up behind, leaving Sherlock and John to walk between them.

John walked close to Sherlock, feeling that old limp returning under the sudden pressure. "The Doctor said we were in _France_," he hissed.

"We are in France," Sherlock replied stiffly.

"Then why are they speaking _English_?"

"The TARDIS, John. The TARDIS translates everything for you. It gets in your head and it translates any language into your native tongue."

"And I'm expected to believe that?"

"Why not?"

"Baskerville, Sherlock!" John said forcefully, and the man ahead of them turned his head.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing at all," Sherlock assured him. When he turned forward, Sherlock pursed his lips. "Fair enough, John. Though I told you already, you were completely safe, under lab conditions. I wouldn't have let anything hurt you."

"Forgive me for being gun-shy," John said grumpily.

"Of course."

Across the Minefield, the inside of the community center glimmered with the hope of safety. As an outsider to this strange future, John still felt the pressing need for time. He supposed it was part of being the wrong future, and he only _hoped_ the Doctor would not be long in his own adventure. Certainly he and Sherlock could have found a way to get information that didn't include going straight into the nest of a group of shell-shocked people. Safely across the minefield, they were stopped by a man in tattered military clothing. The barrier was reconstructed behind them as the man inspected the pair.

"Standard procedure, sir," the man explained hastily, patting down the pair swiftly. "No bugs, you're clean. Go ahead inside. Dinner's just starting."

"At noon?" Sherlock asked loftily. He stood taller than the men standing around him by mere inches, and he looked down on them curiously. John could only wonder what went on behind his cold grey eyes, but he had other times for that.

"Come, Lestrade," he said stiffly, tugging at Sherlock's sleeve. When he thought they were alone, he opened his mouth to speak.

"Sir, your room is that way. We've brought your dinner there. Is your... guest staying with you?"

The sudden appearance of the man at his side startled him, but he regained composure quickly. "Yes, of course, he'll be sharing my room..." John paused briefly. "Are there two beds?"

"Um.. No, Sir, would you like me to get a second bed?"

"That would be well," John responded.

Sherlock grinned at the man running off into the community center. "John, I think you're a leader in the future," he said, bright grey eyes amused.

"That's great, Sherlock. When are they going to realise I'm not _me_?"

"Oh, in time, I suppose. But we needn't be here long. It is as I've suspected. The Military of France broke down under British men, but there are still brief moments of battle, as evidenced by the freshly blown mine we walked by on our way in. France took her people in here, utilizing every bit of space the community center offered and taking some of the adjoining buildings as well. See how the people in this area are mostly trained personnel?" Sherlock looked satisfied with himself.

"Things that we didn't actually need to come inside to find out," John said with a sinking in the pit of his stomach.

"No, of course not."

Before John could advise against it, Sherlock swooped from his grasp and descended upon an unwitting young woman. Bent over her bowl of soup, she was penning a list on a sheet of yellowed paper. Sherlock squatted beside the woman, a friendly look on his face.

"Excuse me miss, could tell me -"

John sucked a breath in as the woman lifted her head. Beneath shaggy, sandy brown hair, her big brown eyes looked back in equal parts shock and anger. What followed was a flurry of motion. The woman's hands darted out, reaching for Sherlock's collar, but his hand intersected hers and twisted her off balance, pulling her close. She kicked, but to her credit made no noise. John looked around them, spotting a guard with his back turned. Sherlock got to his feet, and in one swift motion began marching the woman to Future John's quarters. The three disappeared inside, and John shut the door behind them quickly.

When time began to slow, and his heart began to beat normally, he lifted a finger to point at Sherlock, who still held the girl quite helpless against him. "Put her down," he ordered.

"She tried to kill me," Sherlock said, looking down. "Now, Molly, that's no way to treat an old friend."

"Friend?" Molly Hooper gasped, squirming. "You... you..." she trailed off, tears forming in her eyes, pleading silently with John. When John didn't move, when Sherlock didn't loosen his grip, the former morgue attendant's eyes widened. "Who are you?" she demanded.

"John Watson," he said, stepping forward. The limp was back, biting into his leg. "Um.. Sherlock. Let her go. It might help."

Reluctantly, the detective let the woman go. Before she moved too far, he swiped a knife from her pocket, fiddling with it curiously. "Molly, what has happened in the last five years?" Sherlock asked, eyes on the knife.

"What... Who _are _you?" she demanded again, backing herself against the wall.

"Well... This is... Sherlock, care to help me out here?"

Sherlock slipped the folded knife into his pocket, but not before flipping and catching it. His attention turned towards Molly, and he moved closer to her. "Your nails are broken," he said quietly, more to himself than anyone in the room as his eyes assessed the woman before him. "A callus on your right forefinger, dark circles under your eyes, you're not wearing any makeup. There's a writer's bump on your right ring finger, indicating that you've still done plenty of writing, most likely notes to commanding officers. Your penmanship was always superb. You're not wearing military clothes, but your skill in the morgue must have put you here. Perhaps an acting doctor. You haven't been sleeping well, maybe you're afraid but most likely you've been set to work long hours. You've been handling a gun lately, as well. Is that right, Molly?"

Her fear is gone with the man's assessment, and instead she is confused. "Yes, but... why are you here?"

"No, Molly, _why are you in France_?" Sherlock asked.

John was interested to know that detail, but he cleared his throat, one hand supporting him as he leaned against a chair. "This is going to sound strange," he started, watching as both Sherlock and Molly turned to look at him. "We're from the past."

Molly laughed. A sharp, nervous, unsure thing. "What? Are you mental?"

John shook his head. "There's a man with a machine that... Never mind that! Molly, we're here to stop Moriarty."

A hopeful glint passes over Molly's eyes before it vanishes amongst the despair John has felt since entering this time period. Something is pressing on all of them, giving a sense of urgency to time that they didn't have. Molly lifts a hand to her forehead, brushing aside a stray strand of hair. "Moriarty is fighting with us," she said uncertainly. "Sherlock Holmes is the enemy."


	3. Chapter 3

**note; **Right! So here we are, at chapter three, and here is where things begin to get interesting. A little wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey, if you will. As always, I adore reviews. Even if all you have to say is "I love it!" that review will brighten my day and mean the world to me. Many apologies if there are errors, my keyboard has been acting up as of late. I will work to consistently update, at least one time per month. Please, enjoy the chapter.

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><p>Chapter 3<p>

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><p>It took a while for it to sink in. John stared at Molly Hooper uncertainly, his eyes searching her for any hint of a lie. There was none. Molly didn't lie, and when she did, she had a peculiar tell Sherlock had instructed John on once. That tell wasn't showing now, and John felt a rising sense of dread in his stomach. He almost asked her to repeat that in a more clear sentence. Sherlock turned from the pair with a scoff, his calculating gaze falling over the sparse furnishings in the room. John couldn't peel his eyes from Molly as the pathologist sat heavily on the sparse cot.<p>

"Molly, say that again," Sherlock demanded, motioning to her but keeping his back to the woman.

She did so hesitantly. "Sherlock Holmes is the enemy."

Sherlock shook his head, tutting in disappointment. Turning around, he pointed to John. "Sherlock Holmes killed himself. How did he come back?" he asked. When John gave no answers, he rounded back to Molly. "What did Moriarty _do_?"

"Well... I..." Molly paused, her mouth open and those big brown eyes confused.

"No, nevermind, nanogenes, of course. But I would have to be somewhere he had access to me. John, what hospital did they take me to? Was it St Barts?"

"Sherlock... you were there. You were _alive_. You would know!" John said, exasperated. He didn't understand what the consulting detective was trying to say. What hospital did they take him to? Maybe the one he jumped off? The question rubbed John the wrong way.

"I haven't been there yet," Sherlock pointed out. "The Doctor got me as I was falling. That moment in time is in my future, while it is in your past. And Molly's past. Molly, did I come to your morgue?"

"I... I guess so," Molly replied. "I took the week off..."

"Right!" Sherlock cried, clapping his hands together. "And Moriarty–" His sentence ended abruptly, he steepled his fingers beneath his chin, and he dropped it there, a frown darkening his features.

John looked down, noticing for the first time that his shoes were in need of polish. As he leaned down to wipe away a bit of dirt, Molly cleared her throat. "Yes?" John asked curiously.

"There was something," she said slowly. "Two weeks after the funeral, Moriarty came back to explain everything. He said..." Molly trailed off and looked down at her hands, crossed in her lap.

"What?"Sherlock asked, crossing the room to squat in front of Molly. "What did he say?"

"He said you were alive, and you were starting a war. No one believed him, at first, but when you walked into London with armed troops people started believing."

Sherlock set his jaw, donning his familiar brooding face. "How did I survive? I fell from the building, without the Doctor, only nanogenes would have saved me. Then how did _this _future happen?"

"You came back," Molly said quietly.

"Why would I start a war? What would I have to gain? Where is the _logic_ in that? Moriarty wanted to start the war, Moriarty was setting up pieces for the game..." Sherlock looked around the room again, eyes lingering on John. The army doctor didn't know what to say. It was all a jumbled mess in his head, he couldn't imagine it was anything better in Sherlock's. The man was a genius but he wasn't capable of taking in, and understanding, everything. His knowledge of the solar system proved as much.

"Molly," the consulting detective began, getting to his feet as ponderously as an ancient man. "If you are here, and John – the future John, that is – is also here... Where is Mrs. Hudson?"

Molly turned white, looked down, said nothing.

It was all John and Sherlock needed. Sherlock turned heel and stalked to the door as John stood in a daze. Maybe he was ordinary. Everything washed over him, struck him and kept him rooted to the spot. He didn't want to think of it, of Mrs. Hudson being gone. There were hundreds of ways it could have happened, so why had his and Sherlock's minds jumped to the same conclusion? Molly's tell, the little desperate grab for the blanket on the cot, the pale in her cheeks, the downcast eyes?

"John, come," Sherlock said stiffly. "We have to set this right."

The army doctor didn't need to be told twice. He wrenched his feet free of their mental prison, giving Molly an apologetic look as he turned to follow Sherlock. The taller man opened the door and they stepped out, just as a commotion began at the door they entered the compound through. Before either of them had time to move to a less noticeable location, the commotion came through the entryway, surrounded by ragged military personnel and a man who looked like he could be John's grandfather.

Thin, graying hair peppered the man's skull, deep lines and dark circles beneath his eyes. What once had been laugh lines now took the form of a permanent frown. His eyes were bright and sharp, his nose rounded and small, his face clean-shaven. Several teeth were missing, though one would be foolish to point it out least their own teeth be knocked out. Striding beside him was none other than the man with the bowtie and big blue box. The Doctor looked anything but a prisoner, despite the chains around his wrists. He was calling back to his escort of militants, a wide grin across his face, which only seemed to irritate the greying, short man beside him. That grin vanished when he saw John and Sherlock, and the entire prison party stopped dead.

Silence passed awkwardly in the corridor.

"How did you get in here? Men, seize him," the greying man commanded in John's voice.

Two dutifully moved forward, and the Doctor raised both shackled hands. "Wait!" he shouted, stopping the men. "Wait, they're with me!"

"Thank you, Doctor, I'm sure that helped," Sherlock said snidely, unable to do anything as the two men moved forward to take himself and John by the arms.

"Watson – oh no, not you John – you have to see the likeness. The age difference," the Doctor pleaded, pointing to the pair of _intruders_. "This isn't any good at all..." As John and Sherlock were herded closer to the Doctor, he gave the pair a cheery smile. "I'm sorry, it seems I made a tiny mistake. Not to worry, though, I'll be sure to fix it – or try to fix it. I really can't be sure anymore."

"Fix what, exactly?" John asked.

"Always so grumpy, glad to see that doesn't change with time," the Doctor chided under his breath. He rattled the shackles on his wrists and motioned to the greying man. "Your future self now knows your present self, his past self, is still alive, also somehow here when he is, and that makes time... a little wibbly-wobbly ... not good...y."

Sherlock snorted, giving the Doctor a sarcastic smile. "Is that the technical term for it?"

"If you really must... well of course it is!" the Doctor exclaimed, flustered. "Now, what was I saying?"

Watson stopped walking, his grey-streaked head turned away from them. They stood at a closed doorway at the end of a long hall. Their escort had dwindled significantly, to a squad of seven men and the leader of their military order, Watson. He spoke orders to the man beside him, then turned to the three captives as that man opened the door. "It's clear something isn't right here," he said, eyeing John with more than enough suspicion. "Starting with you, _Doctor_, who are you and how did you get into a quarantined war zone?"

"I'm the Doctor," he replied, no worry showing on his face. "We spoke about this on the way here. Its all a simple misunderstanding, I took a wrong turn."

"And these two men, who look so very much like unsavory people I know, they're with you, too?" Watson asked, looking between his younger self and Sherlock.

"Yes, of course they are. Can't you see who these two are?" the Doctor asked. He sighed heavily and turned to John, speaking quietly out the corner of his mouth, "Are you always this stubborn?"

"That's _me_?" John spurted, staring at the man. "But... you said _five years_!"

"Yes, it looks like it was a very rough five years for you," the Doctor said, nodding.

"John," Sherlock started, taking a half step forward to address the greying man. "If you would be so kind, please explain to us what has happened in the last five years. We would like to help. That is what the Doctor is trying, but clearly failing, to say."

Watson started when Sherlock spoke to him, his eyes darted to the tall dark clad man. All defenses seemed to melt away for a moment, and he said shakily, "Sherlock?"

"Yes, John. And by your surprise, I can tell that this man masquerading as myself is not, in fact, the brilliant Sherlock Holmes. He might be an actor, but then why would Moriarty be playing the good guy to the citizens?" Sherlock asked, taking yet another step forward. Watson doesn't try to stop him, just stares in openmouthed disbelief. Sherlock's bright blue eyes look him over. "You're not sleeping well. Coffee stains on your sleeves, and your collar, indicate an unsteady hand. So unlike you, John. You've worn that shirt three... no four days. You no longer care about impressing someone, your appearance doesn't matter to you half so much as your wits. Your teeth are yet white, you've still been brushing. Your hair is also white, though I don't think that is intentional." Sherlock grinned smugly, pleased with his assessment and his ability to make a jape at John Watson's expense.

Watson's features hardened, and he sets his jaw as only he can. "Take these men to the cells," he ordered, turning his back on them. "I'll decide what to do with them later."

The Doctor fought against the man trying to lead him away. "Watson! John Watson! Don't do this, we can explain!" he shouted down the hall to the man. But it was too late, and John Watson was not turning around to listen to them.

"Always the show off," John sighed under his breath, when they had been shoved into what the men here called a cell. It was an old supply room, with shelves all around and useless junk sitting on all of them. The door was locked twice, once by bolt on the outside and once by the knob.

Sherlock sniffed, looking indignant. "It would have impressed you."

"I'm not me in the future," John reminded him.

A crash from behind the pair made them turn, to see the Doctor amidst a pile of old junk that had fallen off a rotten shelf.

"Sorry," the alien said. "Just looking for ... stuff."

"Yes, very useful," Sherlock responds, pacing along the front wall. Every pass of the door, he looked out, as if he could see something new through the small frosted window pane. The dull black outline of a man guarding the door never changed, but he kept looking anyway as if his brilliant mind would see something new.

John, with no proper recourse of action, sat on the floor. Watching Sherlock walk back and forth was really not something John thought to be amusing, so he turned around to look at the Doctor. The Doctor, who had been unusually quiet since getting prodded into a small supply closet by army men with two people from the past. What John saw surprised him, mostly because he hadn't seen anything like it before in his entire life.

Out of miscellaneous odds and ends, the Doctor had rigged a strange contraption, complete with what appeared to be a tiny windmill made out of flyswatters. The centerpiece to this odd looking _thing_ was an upright blue plastic bucket. From the bucket ran a hose, into a green petrol can that may or may not still contain fuel. A hose led from the petrol can to the strange flyswatter windmill sitting in the bucket, and as John watched, the Doctor flicked the swatter and sent it spinning. He tutted to himself and stopped the windmill, peering into the bucket and shaking his head.

Sherlock stopped pacing to stare. "_What _is _that_?"

"It's a thing," the Doctor said, nudging the bucket. "You wouldn't understand. You haven't seen a xylophone anywhere, have you?"

"A _xylophone_?" John asked.

"No matter, I don't need one. This should do the trick," the Doctor said, lifting a dusty computer keyboard from the pile of rubbish he spilled on the floor. He connected the keyboard with a wire, then spent sevearl minutes hunting around for something before coming up with three wire coat hangers. He twisted them into odd shapes and connected them to the contraption, stepping back as if to admire his handiwork.

It looked something like the meddling of a five-year-old.

"Right," the Doctor said, clapping his hands. "Lets see if this works."

From his breast pocket, he produced his sonic screwdriver, flicking it over the bucket, the keyboard, and the rest of the mess he'd made. Sonic in one hand, he used the other to tap on the keyboard. Bringing the sonic to his face, he stared at it for a moment before spinning around. "Bad news," he said solemnly.

"Your first grade science project failed?" John asked.

Shaking his head, the Doctor turned back to the mess. "No, the bad news is... it did work."

Sherlock was quiet. John looked between the two and got to his feet. "Why is that bad?"

"Well," the Doctor started, turning around to face them. "The enemy of my enemy is my friend, but we have no friends here. Just enemies and people who wont listen because they're too thick," he said, looking to John pointedly. "I wanted to find the Master. And I did. He is here. Close, actually."

"And that's bad news how?" John asked, a frown creasing his brow.

"He knows I'm here." The Doctor said, crossing the room in three long strides to press himself against the door. Laying the sonic against the knob, he waited until there was a click, then he moved on to the bolt on the outside. There was a muffled scrape of metal-on-metal, then a surprised grunt from the other side. _"Hey!"_

"Sherlock, do you think you can handle one guard?" the Doctor asked, shoving the door open before the consulting detective could answer.

In one fluid movement, Sherlock moved past the Doctor through the doorway, delivering an uppercut to the surprised guard's chin. The man's head hitched back, the gun slipped from his hand, and Sherlock grabbed it before it could hit the floor. The man, however, crumpled into a heap, blood dribbling from his nose.

"Don't _kill_ him," the Doctor snapped, sounding irate for the first time since John was abducted off the street. The alien stepped through the doorway, scanning the fallen guard with his sonic. The downed man was still breathing, albeit shallowly. "Be careful next time," he warned Sherlock.

"I am quite careful, Doctor." The consulting detective handed the gun off to John, who took it and settled it naturally in the crook of his arm without a second thought.

"Come on, there isn't much time," the Doctor said, leading the way.

"Doctor, we came from back there," John said, pointing up the stairs.

"Yes, of course we did," the alien agreed. "Just the way they would expect us to escape. Right? So come on, this way then."

John, seeing the logic, followed after the alien and Sherlock. The gun felt so strangely _natural_ in his hands that he barely registered it as being there. He didn't think he would use it, he didn't think he could use it, but if they had a gun, they could bully their way through just about anything.

The Doctor stopped suddenly, turning in a circle at an intersection. He licked his finger, held it up, turned in a circle again, and stopped dead when he spotted John holding the gun. "No," he said firmly, pointing. "Put that down, I don't do guns."

John looked down at the gun in confusion. "What?"

"You heard me, John, the gun. Lose it."

"But what if..."

"No guns. Not ever. I don't like them," the Doctor repeated sternly.

John looked to Sherlock, but the detective was no help. He set the gun by the wall, feeling odd for leaving it out in the open like that. "What's wrong with guns?" he asked. _I wasn't going to use it_.

"Too final," the Doctor said. "Or not, not in his case, I suppose. In most cases, though..." He stopped and turned towards the right fork. "This way. I'm sure of it."

Sherlock followed without hesitation, while John lingered his gaze on the gun. Part of him wondered what had the Doctor so against guns, and the rest of him wanted it for protection. How was he supposed to protect anyone without a gun? Finally relenting, he followed the pair, jogging on his stiff leg to catch up. Maybe it was all in his mind, but the limp was coming back now.

Sherlock noticed. "You're limping," he said quietly.

"Yes."

"Something bothering you?"

"You mean like the fact we're five years in the future, one week ago I saw you kill yourself, and now you're in front of me? No, of course not," John answered sarcastically.

"I'm sorry, John, I couldn't tell you."

"Of course."

"Don't sound so bitter," Sherlock chided.

"Stop squabbling, you two. Hurry up, we have to get to the TARDIS before the Master finds us or... I don't quite want to think about it," the Doctor said, turning to interrupt the lovers spat. "Come on, lets move."

True to his word, the Doctor led them out of the compound, or as out as they could get. In fact, _out_ was going to be something of an impossibility. Every corner was blocked by guards, and the trio of time travelers would be hard-pressed to slip through them unnoticed. As they were contemplating the most useful strategy, a commotion broke out in the compound. Gunfire rattled out from all around, and before their eyes, the guards on the door they'd been watching fell dead, blood pouring out of bullet holes. The Doctor looked dismayed, perhaps even heartbroken by this, but Sherlock and John saw it as an opportunity.

"Come on!" John hissed, grabbing the Doctor's arm and pulling him forward.

They made it to the door, stopped to peer out, and John felt the Doctor tense up. He dropped the alien's arm, staring dead ahead. "No," he said.

Sherlock had a less stunned reaction. His cold eyes stared down the man crossing the minefield, jaw clenched. "What is that?" he asked the Doctor, his voice hard. "What am I seeing?"

The Doctor hesitated to answer, watching. Finally, with much weight on his voice, he said, "Its you."

The doppleganger Sherlock Holmes stepped over the barricade fence and stopped before the trio. Appearance-wise, he seemed to be much the same as his past self. His face was slightly more gaunt, with a more alien and distant appearance to his eyes. A smile spread across his pale face as he looked them over. "Hello," he said smoothly. "The Master would like to see you now."


End file.
